


Deadly Food, Living Food

by quakenbake (raccoontitties)



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 04:02:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1673966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raccoontitties/pseuds/quakenbake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One thing Amy has learned, is that she can master any skill with dedication and a lot of confidence. That includes; tackle football, expert marksmanship, and making detective before she was old enough to rent a car in her own name. Cooking is no big deal. In theory. Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deadly Food, Living Food

This is Jake's fault.

It’s always Jakes fault. In fact, if she had a dollar for every time something in the precinct was Jake’s fault she’d have enough money to _bribe_ her way into the record books as the youngest female captain in NYPD history. Not that Amy would ever do that, obviously. She’s going to build her legend on hard work and mountains of commendations attesting to her brilliance as a detective. But she could if she had all those dollars. Which is the point; everything is always Jake’s fault.

All she’d wanted to do was impress her boss and serve the community and maybe take another tiny step forward in her quest for professional excellence. So not altogether different from her goals on any other day, but then Capt. Holt steps out of his office to make a special announcement.

“Attention, detectives. This weekend is the annual Prospect Park Spring Fling, a very important neighborhood event. In the past, the Nine-Nine’s attendance has been negligible leaning toward completely nonexistent.”

“Yeah, because it’s boring. Spring Fling makes you think of booze and fun,” Jake says, spinning in his chair to put his feet up on the only six inches of clean space on his desk.

“--and fried Oreos.”

“Yes thank you, Hitchcock. But PPSF is all ‘concerned citizens’ and ‘community awareness and park safety’ and moms with strollers and just uggghh.’” Jake still insists on making air quotes like a child and Amy wonders why Holt never just smacks him.  

“I used to take my girls running there all the time. Well, I was running. They were sleeping like little angels,” Terry says.

“I stand corrected. There are also dads with strollers.”

“Be that as it may; it is important to the leadership of this precinct by which I mean myself, your commanding officer, that we take an active role in our community. So I will require volunteers--”

“I will, Captain Holt sir. I volunteer.” Amy couldn't stop her hand from shooting into the air if she wanted too. By now, she knows better than to even try.

She also can’t stop herself from throwing wadded up paper at Peralta when he mutters, “Please let this year be Hunger Games themed.”

“Does anyone else wish to volunteer to bring a dish to the event?”

“Wait. What?” No one said anything about cooking. Amy figured she was signing up to give a PowerPoint on helmet safety or stranger-danger, both of which she already has prepared. But cooking is another matter altogether. This is what she gets for her dedication and enthusiasm.

“I signed up the Nine-Nine to prepare and donate a food item to the event. It’s a genius way to cut costs by not having to contract outside caterers. True efficiency. Is there a problem, Santiago?”

“No! No, sir not at all. My culinary skills are excellent.”

She manages to keep a straight face. Which is more than she can say for her colleagues. Who are also supposed to be her friends. Maybe she ruined Thanksgiving dinner once. And sent Scully to the hospital with acute reflux esophagitis. But they’re supposed to be a team built on trust and support. The chorus of laughter barely muffled (Terry) and unmuffled at all (everyone else) doesn’t feel supportive.

“Well if Santiago’s involved things will definitely be ‘catching fire.’ See how I tied that back into the Hunger Games reference? Hey Boyle, sequel-five!”

“Anyone else?” Holt continues as if Jake hadn’t spoken. Wow, that's a skill she really needs to learn. To ignore annoying subordinates. One of many skills she could learn from Raymond. Captain Holt. She’s got to remember to call him Captain Holt even in her head so she won’t slip up.

“I will not ask all of you to attend as it's this Saturday and I’m sure you have plans now that the weather has broken.”

“I have Zumba with Vivian as part of my rehab and my glutes are always wrecked afterward. But it’s worth it for her world-class deep tissue massage. She uses imported oils from Chiang Mai and after we're all slippery and--”

“Boyle stop.” Amy shouts in unison with Jake, Gina and Terry. Rosa just has a disgusted look on her face like she wants to disinfect the inside of her skull.

“How about you, Peralta?” Holt says, stepping up to Jake’s desk. Because Jake obviously deserves his attention and mentoring. Amy rolls her eyes. _Yeah right._

“Only if it’s OK to buy food.  My iron is still recovering from that grilled mac and cheese I made last night.”

_What the hell?_

“And also Captain, we _really_ shouldn’t let Santiago cook. It wouldn’t be good for public relations if the neighborhood comes down with a deathly food poisoning epidemic.”

“I’ll have you all know that my cooking has vastly improved thanks to the Rachel Ray marathon I saw last weekend on Oxygen.”

“I’m not going to touch that; it’s too easy.”

“Yeah well, I bet you couldn’t cook your way out of a paper bag.”

“That metaphor doesn’t make sense. And also you’re right because you’d probably have already set it on fire. Along with the kitchen. And the rest of the neighborhood. Maybe we should just keep the fire department on standby.”

“You think you could do better?” Amy stands and knocks his feet off his desk smiling a little when he has to scramble to keep his seat. She’s doing her best to tower over Jake menacingly but the lack of apprehension in his face is disappointing.

“I think I could dive into a dumpster and grab the softest juiciest handful of rank maggot infested garbage, slap it on a plate and still beat you in a cook off.”

At this Holt interjects, his mouth tilted down that tiniest fraction of a centimeter that signals disapproval. “Cook off? Who said anything about a cook off? This is an opportunity to better interact with the people in the district you serve, not a childish competition.”

“Oh my dear Captain. You should know better by now. Everything is a childish competition, especially when I get the chance to publicly humiliate Santiago. Isn’t that right?”

“You’re on. Trial run tomorrow.” She is out of the precinct and halfway to the grocery store before she remembers she’s a terrible cook.

____

Amy hates Jake. Hates him just as much as she hates sweating. Which is what she’s been doing for the past hour. This recipe was supposed to be easy but she’s not sure the sickly yellow gunk in her pot is within a reasonable margin of error from the cream color in the picture. In any case, there’s not enough time to start over. Her kitchen is a mess and it’s 3 am and there’s no way these stains will ever come out of her blouse. And she loves this blouse. But she tells herself it’s a worthwhile sacrifice for the department. And Macy’s has a sale next week anyway.  

As she scours the blackened crust from the bottom of her skillet, Amy smiles a bit thinking of how much trouble Jake must be having with whatever mess he’s making. A thirty-year-old single guy who puts soda on his cornflakes is a disaster waiting to happen. She almost pities him.  

___

She should have saved her pity. Because Jake got a full night sleep and is predictably doing his cooking at the last minute. Literally. He has an extension cord stretch over his desk and connected to some device he’s pouring water into. It’s not an iron, thank goodness but still--.

“What are you doing? What is that?”

“This is a personal kettle. Haven’t you ever seen one? I got it at Rite Aid on sale for 5.99. What a steal.”

“Yeah, but what’s in it?”

“An old Peralta classic. Ramen, chicken flavored for those in the community who keep kosher. But you may ask what separates this ramen from the ramen you made as you cried over your exams in college?”

Amy rolls her eyes so hard they threaten to fall out of her head.  

“The finishing touch is a poached egg or five. Also I got the eggs from that guy who pushes a cart full of chickens on Atlantic Ave. So they’re quite literally fresh form the hen.”

Amy knows this is going to end badly even before Jake opens the kettle. The guy he’s talking about wears like four pairs of vinyl gloves on his hands to presumably keep the gross pus and sores on the inside. And she knows for a fact at least one on of the chickens in that cart is in fact a pigeon. How did Jake think this was a good idea? That question runs through her mind right after, ‘How is that guy not being quarantined by the CDC?’

Jake grabs her elbow and tugs her closer to his desk and the sick feeling in her stomach mounts higher.

“Without further ado, allow me to present the Peralta Special: SOUP THERE IT IS!”

He pulls off the lid and Amy peers inside. She’s looking at something. Something with noodles and brownish sauce and a few bits of egg but also a beak...and feathers.  Feathers. _Oh god._

“Oh. Oh no. It looks like this is one rooster that will never crow.” He glances solemnly at the ceiling, feigning tears. “You died for a noble cause, Egghead Jr.”

“Gather round guys,” Amy calls, excited to rub Jake’s face in this catastrophe. “Jake plans to serve the neighborhood a dead chicken fetus. Great job Chef Peralta.”

Their colleagues swarm his desk with the eagerness for the gruesome that only seasoned detectives acquire.

“Ooh let me see!” Terry says.

“It’s like that riddle. Only it looks like the chicken and the egg came at the same time.” Gina snaps a picture on her phone and Amy doesn’t think about what she could possibly want that for. Boyle takes her spot around the desk when she walks away.

“You know in the Philippines there is a dish known as balut that’s a duck embryo boiled alive and eaten in the shell”

“Ew, Boyle that’s gross” Amy says.

Rosa nods in agreement, “It’s revolting. Let’s drop it on someone’s car.”

“I like the way you think Diaz, but I still guarantee that this is better than whatever Santiago cooked up in her cauldron of failure.”

Amy has her mouth open ready to defend herself with a witty, razor sharp comeback when Hitchcock ambles into the room bringing with him a familiar stench separate from his day-to-day body odor. Amy has a pretty good idea of what’s in his bowl. She had hoped Jake’s dramatic crash and burn meant it wouldn’t have to come to this.

Hitchcock though, doesn't seem to mind the smell that makes everyone grimace as he walks past them to his desk in the corner. Rosa’s full lips turn down at the corners and Jake pretends to gag into the trashcan, which in Amy’s opinion is a little over the top. It doesn't smell that bad if you breathe through your mouth. At least no chickens were harmed in the making of her dish.

“She” she says, wavery to her own ears. “Hitchcock likes it, right Hitchcock?”

“Yeah, if you put a few tablespoons of hot sauce in it you can really taste the flavor in the mushrooms.”

Amy doesn’t buy mushrooms so that’s not exactly a glowing compliment, but she’ll take it. She’s nothing if not a master of turning small things into events of epic proportions. Her mother says that’s why her brothers never let her play board games with them as a kid. But whatever, this is a victory because she’s decided so.

“So there you have it, Peralta, my chili trumps your murdered baby chicken. Would you like the floor for your concession speech?”

“Never. And I’m offended you would ask that. I say we put it to a vote. No one’ even tasted mine yet”

“Yeah and no one’s gonna. It's heinous. ” Rosa interjects. Amy beams at her. “I’ll vote for you if you let me drop it on Officer Dietmore’s car”

“Me too”, Gina says over a murmur of approval.

Amy’s smile wilts as Rosa and Gina stand side-by-side, identical gleeful expressions even more disconcerting than the fact that they would sell her out for a silly prank. Especially Rosa, who lately seems to have her back versus Jake’s shenanigans and anyway,

“Dietmore? I thought Captain Holt told you to make up with him?”

“I did. That was until he cut me off this morning on the way to work.”

Gina looks up from where she’s seated on Amy’s desk, making origami cranes out of the paperwork Amy needed to turn in today.  “Yeah, I just don’t like his face. And that stupid outfit he wears to work everyday”

“You mean his uniform?”

“Yeah. It makes him look like a putz.”

“Well ladies, I’m sold” Jake shoves the kettle into Rosa’s hands and comes to stand beside Amy.

“So there you have it Santiago,” he says,  “ it appears the people have spoken”

“What? That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Careful, Amy. You’re starting to sound like a Latin American dictator.” He pauses. “And by the way I’m not just saying that because you’re Cuban.”

Amy just looks at him, trying to figure out how he can lose and somehow still win. She wants to argue, but she can tell he _wants_ her to yell and get all worked up. She's not going to give him the satisfaction. Amy ignores him and joins the crowd at the window. She elbows her way in next to Rosa as she eases the lid off the kettle to take another look at the mess inside.

 _Disgusting_ , Amy thinks

“Awesome,” Rosa says.

Boyle knocks into her trying to angle in for a better view squishing her into Rosa. Amy knocks against her arm, luckily not the one holding the kettle. Her cheek brushes against the leather of Rosa’s sleeve. It’s softer than she would have expected and warm from the skin underneath. Amy finds herself paying more attention to Rosa, her subtle perfume and the way Boyle on Amy’s left and Gina on Rosa’s right has sandwiched them together so that Amy can feel Rosa's body heat from shoulder to hip. From this angle she can basically count Rosa’s eyelashes. She tells herself she’s looking because there’s nowhere else to look. The street below is a filled with typical mid-morning Brooklyn traffic and the sight of the almost-chick turns her stomach.

That doesn't explain the way her pulse is picking up or the tight feeling in her stomach just underneath the nausea.

Boyle’s voice in her ear brings her back to the window and what they’re doing. 

“Which car is his?”

“It’s that blue Prius. Jeez, I should have known. Only a chump like that drives a hybrid”

“Hey, I drive a hybrid.” Amy blurts before she realizes how badly she’s set herself up. Rosa glances at her, the corner of her lips tilting up this time. “Figures.”

That look…that smirk? What does _that_ mean. Is it new or has it always been like that and Amy is suddenly reacting differently? Because she should be irritated, but she’s not and maybe she inhaled some toxic fumes while cooking, but she kind of just wants Rosa to look at her again.

She subtly edges out of Rosa’s personal space, even though that leaves her leaning halfway out the window. “This is crazy,” she says, mostly to herself.

“What I’d like to know, Santiago, is what exactly _this_ is and why it is happening in my squad room?”

What happens next feels like it happens in slow motion. Though that may be due to the extended theatrical “nooooo” from Jake. Scully, startled by Captain Holt’s sudden appearance, jumps and shoves into Jake who slams into Gina who knocks Rosa’s arm. It’s like a life size set of police shaped dominoes toppling to their doom. Only their doom comes in the shape of a cheap personal kettle tumbling from a fourth story window.

The contents of the kettle are more solid than liquid at this point and they hit the car with a sickening squelch. Amy watches at the noodles slide down the windshield and the aborted chick likes desolately on the hood. She imagines that its undeveloped eyes are looking up at them balefully, judging them much in the way Captain Holt is.

Jake speaks up first, _naturally._ “Hey Captain. I have an explanation.”

“I hope you do.” Holt says pinning them all with the angry-disappointed-appalled stare that haunts Amy’s worst nightmares. “I hope you all have an explanations to why no one is working, why this place smells like a sewer and why you just dropped a likely biological hazard onto an unsuspecting public. Most of all, I'd like to know what Hitchcock is doing on the floor.”

Amy looks to where Hitchcock is prone on the floor. The overturned bowl spills it contents on the linoleum like some bizarre crime scene. Scully rushes over and kneels heavily beside him, placing his fingers into Hitchcock’s neck a good four inches from where the carotid artery actually is.

“He’s dead. Amy killed him”

 

 


End file.
